The Boss

The BossTo hide beneath a manipulated skin like a resident alien and to play a surreal icon in some blazing outfit; they are too obsolete to be the Boss’ way.
One could, considering the singular existence of the Boss, identify him in a para super class and may realize that there are heroes, super heroes, there’s Hancock and then there’s the Boss.
His almost-omnipresent existence in different forms and versions makes him invulnerable and immortal.

His powers are quite uncertain though he is known for his ‘imperetus’ spell. He feeds on inferior people and he enjoys it – always.

Like any super class entity, he also does incredible stuff. Cubicle-idleness is regarded as the greatest among them. Again, the Boss can choose his mood and he can even make the others choose. The Boss cannot fly though he can disappear. When he disappears, it would be socially compatible and figuratively tail-less.

None can miss the Boss. His fancy costume, when he goes out, is an ordinary one and his social costume is a fancy one- very, indeed.

Oh, i almost forgot! er.. there is no SOS signs to call in the Boss at critical conditions. It’s like that the Boss calls you in and recognize it as a critical condition. Yeah.


Transparent Flag

Transparent flag- an idea so idiotic and above all opportunistic was put forward, long ago, by a half-nerd in a PR promotion conference of the Ban Han corporate. Behind his proposal, there was no actual innovative drive but a pure surge of instincts. He could have been nailed for that if the idea was not nearly outlandish or had it not occupied the thoughts of all the PR executives, completely, for a couple of minutes. Though they moved on to other matters after a while, the transparent flag remained there in deep with everybody.

It may be opportunistic but it could also be diplomatic.

Two days later, the half-nerd was summoned by a PR Project head to hear more about the flag. He just wanted to know what all would or could the transparent flag tell the Ban Han customers. The half-nerd started to give a ‘jargonistic’ lecture on the abstract idea out of nowhere. More than confused than convinced, the Project Leader sent a ‘Move Ahead Query’ to the PR Manager, showing the relevant points of the elaborated idea. On the following working day, our half-nerd was briefed by a PR senior executive in an attempt to retain the idea with themselves. You would not know who would use it how.

Approaching the idea in a macro level, the Creative Arts Department had broken down the same. The result was the realization that the same idea can be used in different ways. One of them suggested small transparent flags on poles which are as small as matchsticks; and it was the maximum level of ‘add-on innovation’ they marked.

Eventually, the concept and all related works were archived under a codename ‘Bad Stitch’.

Our good old half-nerd is retired now. He lives in Hawaii with a broad and a boat. Almost all of the then Top Notch people of the Ban Han PR Department are now either retired or dead.

‘Bad Stitch’ is still considered as one of the greatest puzzles in the world of brand marketing.

The Dusty Yellow

The dusty yellow ghost is no myth. You, at the height of disbelief or disrespect or ignorance, may call it a hypothesis; but not a myth. People do not call it dusty yellow. It’s just me- I call it so. Now let me hold a shiny glass ball thingy, wear the tunic and shoes of a prophet and  lead you through a few centuries into the future. The place where you stand now is so ordinary, no different than any other cyber infected terrain in a no longer- actually- physical world. Air over every chunk of the earth is paralyzed by electro magnetic madness. The internet in its new attire rules the place over. People (should we call them virtual?) live by the cyber corrundrum and for the cyber corrundrum. Everything is virtual. When you take notes, ‘you’ do not take notes- your synchronized electric inculcation does. Now let me introduce the dusty yellow. Inspite of being a ghost, dusty yellow does not haunt mansions (or computers, should I say?). It just exists in its solitude and floats around invisibly. Many years ago when the dusty yellow was actually dusty and yellow, its domain of existance was global. People used to amuse themselves by knowing each of its elements one by one. Those elements were of course not as beautiful as blinking letters on a palm tab, no. But er.. it had life.

For the greater cause , they say looking at a cleaner city. They also have pet forests, yes. As people went very close to the greater cause, it was no longer a cause. It was just the process of embracing the easy way. In Yontachi, China they have a museum. ‘The age of the print’-  they call it. They built it and then they keep it with a singular delusion that the dusty yellow lives there.

Phosphorous Factory

The outskirts of the DarkCity is haunted. The ‘River of the dead’ flows right through the walls of the city. The nights are terrorized by a satanic pack of wolves with a bluish green aura. Then there is this Phosphorous factory with huge towers looming high in the gloomy skies. There is no night guard, only wraiths floating randomly over the fortress portals. The timeline over the country was sabotaged ages ago. Sometimes it will just stall keeping the night, night or the day, day.

The supernatural elements, which shroud the city, would fade off after the palace gates. In the Royal courtyard of Burton II, one could only find peace and harmony. Once a messenger from an ally lost his perseverance before the king and shot a question about the Royal wizard. A smiling King respectfully denied the possible existence of any Royal Warlock. The messenger was perplexed and it was only diplomatic excellence to send back a messenger like that.

Now if you ask about all these, the king had paid for all of them. The wolves and the red moon came as a set. Because of its seemingly common appearance and its being so cheap, the King was disinterested in it until the Queen started to insist so badly, propelled by her love for artistic charisma. The wraiths, a hundred of them, were bought on a nice discount. To get the timeline altered, the King had to wait for three months after applying!


All went nice except the Phosphorous factory. The incredulously huge mansion was a recommended purchase with the wolves to sustain their uncanny aura. After 3 months of the erection of the factory, it had already consumed phenomenal area of the city graveyards. At this point, Burton II outsourced the input. An outlandish company came over, toiled for some months, and there spurted the first gush of the black water, so viscous with blood and bone fragments.

In the coming months, the River and the factory were made to synchronize, making the system fully automatic. However, for an unhappy ending, the queen realized that the Phosphorous Factory could not be covered under warranty anymore, after all those third party tangle mangle. Now for the Royal Court, the nights are terrorized by the Royal bedroom altercation. Nobody sleeps. Evil they say, Evil!


“I don’t know what she did in the closet just before going out with me… you know, a man can expect a lot… but the bitch… the bitch… [Sobbing] Oh I got it all wrong!” said the stout little Bill.

“…he was right and he knew he was right… he thought the fucking angels would come down and take him away… you know who fucked him eh? Ha! I did! And I did it in style. You should have seen how I finished it off…” The flat-nosed lawyer kept on boasting.

“To ensure safety for the society, the current leaders should be brought down and burnt” Tom Dick and Harry seemed to have made a statement before the eager nobody!

“…we were in no lesser trouble compared to the initial stages of the Eastern Poland. The Alpha team was all blind from there and the only sniper remaining was me myself. I checked my Solly twice and cocked her for good…” A lean old man with a blonde moustache turned out to be unusually verbose.

“It is not worth it and who will say anybody can possibly undertake such an assignment, which is otherwise not possible also, without the intelligent application of the facility, yeah the facility” Just like everyday, if you miss Johnny when he starts talking, you’d better miss the whole talk.

“…our big Tommy rigged her nice with his 30 pound dick ha! Cheers to the hero,” “cheers…!” [Chorus] Tommy was evidently a baseball hard hitter!

“ know it right babe? Yeah… and what about you honey? Ah! Okay… so we are good to go! I love it when I conceive somebody!” Said the punk guitarist.

“This story, as you see it, is very irrational. You got to go through a changeover somewhere in the middle…” That man had thick glasses put on and was talking to a cool middle-aged guy who believed that one day he will be…“NO” utters the listener!

“I love you, my son, more than I love your mom and that’s why I brought you here, we should get closer” A real block and a chip of the old block was talking.

The Old boy Harry “Gunner” Green casually observed all the customers at his place while filling a Victorian glass with Black Russian. By midnight, he had concluded it for the nth time that you get the finest sample of the society off guard at the bar.

“Loose lipped, imprudent, impudent, sometimes loving, and sometimes filled with burning hatred; the jolly bullies rise and shine.” Harry tells his cat as he closes his classic pub in the Brigade Street.

The Wheelman

Dashing through the urban jungle half-naked in my open jaguar, I am a wheelman. My flagship tattoo spreading over my left shoulder blade and those glasses I wear give me looks. I play on the throttle, slide in and out of the trailing truck convoys. Now my stereo feed me hallelujah, only in a little absurd way with unusual rise and dip of notes. To make it clear I can tell you that, in fact, I do not have any problem with Jesus Christ. I am the succeeded anomaly to liberate the folks to the next level. Look at me and then once again see the obsolete old syllabus meant to inculcate faith for the sake of order. Again look at me, I will give you a knowing smile and you will return it, that I know. The new roads of the state are wider and uniform. It is better to be more chaotic and randomly mad. My porcelain parents think that I am delusional. There are millions of such parents. I am not at all worried to admit that they are so normal for all I want is the punk absurdness, which makes everybody unique. Oh, am I giving you hackneyed stuff? Relax; at least we should be far away from the world’s most hackneyed stuff, which people gather to hear.

Oh, this cold gush of wind carried me away. Speeding past a grumpy van, still playing on the throttle, I am a wheelman. I transport people.


Simmonds could pass off as an English citizen despite his being of a German spy. The SS was quite rational on using his dead, English father. His esteem for his nation was never questionable, which the SS came to know after he had been through many ordeals beyond the enemy lines.

On May 7, 1945 the announcement on the conclusion of war trumpeted the streets of London unleashing the spirits of hundreds of thousands. They laughed and danced in the streets like there is no tomorrow just because they got a glimpse of the same. For the following couple of days, England stepped down and braced chaos and loved it.

Simmonds, despite his losing of his handler, was still stationed in London holding fast to the legend of a salesman. He spent almost whole of the perfect summer day in his small gloomy apartment. Lost in contradictory thoughts he was a desperate gentleman at the verge of snapping. All the hollering from outside, he would simply listen to that, as if pain would sooth his delusions.

Simmonds stole a Silver Ghost, the next day, from a very lively Covent Garden. He walked up the street, hands in pocket, indifference clouding his face. All the pain and hatred he would have most probably taken with him.

Later the unfortunate owner of the car found it 17 blocks away though it no longer looked like one. The hood was neatly ripped off and the cylinders were all caved in. There was no interior and on the body, a big eagle was carrying a sign.